Seeker (The Seeker Series Book 1)

by Amy Reece

  “But then, if it’s always mild why I am having these really vivid vision-type things? This is way more than enhanced intuition! Is it going to go away?” I asked hopefully.

  “Well, Ally, I wish I had better news for you, but from what I’ve discovered every once in a great while, maybe once every 3 or 4 generations, a very powerful Seer comes along who has a gift that is most powerful and unusual. Our gifts usually begin to develop around the time we begin to reach maturity—16 or 17—and settle into their final form by the time we reach our 18th birthday. I think we’re going to have to wait and see how your gift develops as you get a little older. It may settle down, or it may get even more powerful.”

  “Oh, great. I just want to graduate high school without attracting too much attention. Is that too much to ask?” I whined. “Grams, you said that this ‘gift of the Seer’ is in all the women in our family? Is this one of those Irish legends you’ve told me about all my life? Does this happen in any other families?”

  “Well,” she began, “the Moran family dates back to the 14th century in County Mayo in northwest Ireland. There are some indications that this gift was given to an ancestor by a druid priestess in gratitude for sheltering her from Oliver Cromwell’s soldiers during the English Civil War.”

  “How does a priestess ‘give’ a power to someone?” I asked skeptically.

  “Well, I don’t know, but I’m sure it involved sex. I’ve heard those druids were quite the lusty set.”

  “Wow, Grams. Thanks for that mental image.”

  “Oh, Ally, don’t be such a prude. You surely didn’t get that from me.”

  Surely. “So, let’s recap,” I said. “I may or may not be a powerful Seer whose powers may or may not have come from an ancient druid booty call. I might continue to develop some really freaky vision power that is of no practical use to anyone—” but then I remembered the vision of Veronica getting hit by some guy and stopped.

  “What is it, sweetie?” Grams put down her teacup and looked closely at my face. “What did you see that’s bothering you?” I hadn’t had a chance yet to tell her about yesterday’s vision; when I finished, she looked at me and said in a very serious tone, “A Seer’s powers, if they are true, are always for the purpose of helping someone. Power is never given or meant for mere profit or fame. I think you have a mission to help this young woman. She sounds like she’s gotten herself into a situation that she can’t find her way out of on her own. You’re being called to help her.”

  Well, crap. That’s really inconvenient because I kind of despise Veronica and everything she stands for. Why can’t I be called to help somebody nice who deserves it? No, I have to be called to help someone who’s a total slut and who hasn’t had a nice word to say to me since elementary school. I hate my life. “Grams, how the heck am I supposed to help her? She got herself knocked up because she couldn’t figure out how to use a condom. She is such a bitch!”

  “Aletheia Grace! I am ashamed of you.” Yep. That’s my full name—you always know you’re in trouble when you get both your full first and your middle name. Aletheia means truth in Greek. You are picking up on the irony of this, aren’t you? “Are you forgetting that your own mother is ‘someone who got herself knocked up because she couldn’t figure out how to use a condom’? There’s always a story that the rest of the world isn’t privy to. It’s not our job to judge her. I certainly wouldn’t want anyone judging me. Are you so sure you are above such judgment?” I’ve never seen her look so disappointed.

  I have also never been more ashamed of myself. Where did all those horrible words come from? Being the mature person I am, I started crying messily, with big heaving sobs. “I’m sorry, Grams. I didn’t mean it. I don’t want to mean it. I don’t know why I hate her so much. I don’t want to be that kind of person!” I wailed.

  She took me in her arms and held me close. “It’s all right, baby. Let it all out. I know you’re not that kind of person. We sometimes need a reminder to check our attitude. You’re going to be fine. We’ll figure this out.” After a bit more crying and generally feeling sorry for myself, Grams had had enough. “All right, stop crying. Go wash your face and then let’s figure out what our next steps are.” Her day job as a family counselor gave her an advantage when it came to dealing with my issues.

  I did as she ordered and then returned to sit on her bed. “So, how am I supposed to help this girl? I don’t even talk to her anymore. She never even notices me except to give me dirty looks.”

  “Well,” she began, “I think your first job is to try and talk with her. Have a nice conversation, get to know her again, get her to trust you.”

  I sighed. “I can try, Grams, but I don’t think you understand how the modern high school social hierarchy works. I hate to tell you, but I’m pretty much a complete loser at school. I am definitely at the bottom of the food chain and Veronica is at the top. We have absolutely nothing in common and nothing to talk about. She’s a cheerleader, for heaven’s sake!”

  “Oh, God, not a cheerleader!” she mocked me. “Ally, I know you think I went to high school wearing flapper dresses and rouging my knees in the 1920s, but I actually graduated in 1973, for God’s sake. You kids have nothing on my generation for decadence and bad behavior. Think Woodstock. The stories I could tell.” Oh, dear heaven, please don’t. She started cleaning up our tea and sandwich things, stacking them on the tray. “Now, you need to find an opportunity to talk to this girl and get her to open up to you. You need to think beyond the ridiculous labels teenagers think are so all-important. A few years from now, what and who you were in high school won’t even begin to matter. Now get out of here so I can get back to my research.” She shoved the tray at me and pushed me out the door. Her comments made me think of what Jack had said earlier this week at lunch about not liking to label people. I don’t know. It sounds really good to talk about not labeling people and to look deeper into who they really are, but the reality of a 21st century public high school in America is pretty brutal, let me tell you. Not for the faint-at-heart.

  ***

  Sunday morning began, like all Sundays begin at the Moran house, with a top-to-bottom house cleaning. Mom says that Grams instituted this fun-filled little tradition back when Mom was in elementary school. Grams says that with three such busy people, there has to be a routine—which is rarely deviated from—so we don’t end up living like a bunch of pigs. I wish we could get a maid. Or a house elf. I’m not picky.

  While I was scrubbing the downstairs guest bathroom, I tried to plot how I would start a deep and meaningful conversation with Veronica tomorrow at school. I only have two classes, English and physics, with her so I needed to find a time where 1) she was alone—tough since she is popular and popular people tend to constantly hang out with other popular people—and 2) we would have at least a short amount of uninterrupted time. I finished the bathroom, for some reason whistling “Popular” from the musical Wicked, and moved on to the other two bathrooms in the house. By the time I finished I had a rather lame plan, but it was the only somewhat viable thing I could come up with.

  Monday morning I headed toward the bus stop carrying my hot pink backpack as usual and an additional item: a gym bag with running shorts, a t-shirt, and my seldom-used running shoes. I planned to lie in wait for Veronica in the girl’s locker room after she finished with cheerleading practice, but I needed a good excuse to be there, hence the running gear. I would happen to be changing back into my street clothes at the same time as Veronica after a healthy run after school. Hey, it’s the best I could do. As plans go, it really wasn’t that bad, but it didn’t quite work out like I hoped.

  I got done with school and reluctantly refused a ride home with Jack. He looked at me a bit strangely when I told him I was going to do some laps around the track after school. I guess I don’t give off the athletic aura. I took him aside and told him what I was really up to. He was skeptical but wished me luck as he headed off to his CNM classes. When I realized I was spendin
g too long staring at his jean-clad rear end while he walked out to the student parking lot—what can I say?—I reluctantly gathered up my backpack and gym bag and made my way to the locker rooms.

  I hadn’t been there since freshman year P.E. as New Mexico only requires one P.E. credit to graduate. Somebody really needs to investigate the correlation between so little physical education and high obesity rates in New Mexico. I wrinkled my nose as the humid, sweaty aroma of generations of female athletes enveloped me. There was a heavy note of chlorine as well, since my school has an indoor pool. Hmmm, maybe I should have brought my suit and done some laps instead of running? I really don’t like running. Oh, well, next time. I made sure I followed Veronica into the locker room, but at a bit of distance. I needed to choose a locker in the same row as her, but I didn’t want to look like a creepy stalker, which I kind of was, but for a good reason. I managed to slip into her row as she was pulling a sweatshirt over her yoga capris and bandeau bra top. Really? She might want to consider a more supportive garment for cheerleading practice. I mean, all that jumping around was going to give her sagging boobs when she was older. But then, so was childbearing. Or so I’ve heard. Gross. I’m never having kids. “Hey, Veronica, how’s it going?” I decided to hit the conversational ground running.

  She turned to me in surprise and—I kid you not—she looked me up and down. “Uh, fine,” she said, turned back to her locker, closed it, attached the combination lock, and left without another glance. I never knew two little words could be infused with so much snottiness—and one of them wasn’t even a real word! I cannot express how close I was to saying, “forget this” and leaving. But then I remembered what Grams said to me and simply sighed and changed into my running clothes. I put everything into an empty locker, secured it with my hot pink Master Lock combination lock left over from my freshman year, and set out for the track that ran around the football practice field. The cheerleaders were already gathered in the center, but the actual football team was nowhere to be found. I wanted to be where I could see Veronica so I could catch her maybe when she took a break. If need be I would follow her back to the locker room and try to talk to her again there. I was starting to feel a bit stalker-ish. I pondered the mystery of the missing football team while I did a warm-up lap. I don’t know anything about high school athletics except for what I’ve picked up by osmosis, being trapped in a building with them for nine months every year. There were a few other joggers utilizing the track, including some older ladies “power walking”; you know, pumping their arms like crazy, wearing brightly-colored velour jogging suits. I tried to picture Grams doing this and had to chuckle. I’m nearly certain Grams could out-run me, not to mention these ladies. The cheerleaders went through a series of stretches and then they all hit the track for a few laps. My warm-up lap had about done me in, but these girls sailed around the track and headed back to the center of the field without even appearing out of breath. I admit to some grudging respect for their athleticism.

  By about an hour into their practice I was bored and cold. That’s the thing about Albuquerque weather—you never know what it’s going to do. It’s really unpredictable. It had been unseasonably warm for early November for the past few days, but this afternoon it appeared that a storm was beginning to blow in. The temperature had dropped at least 10 degrees since school let out. I was determined to do this, however, so I kept alternating walking and running laps. I must have looked ridiculous.

  At 3:30 the mystery of the missing football team was solved as they came running onto the field in their practice gear. The cheerleaders moved to the sidelines. There was some very disgusting catcalling as the guys began to warm up. Ick. It was all so stereotypical. I will admit to some pride in the fact that I received a few catcalls of my own, a fact the cheerleaders did not seem to appreciate. I watched the football team warm up and I found myself a bit surprised by the way they looked. They were all so big and buff. I mean, I had been going to school with these guys for years and had never noticed all those muscles. It was like watching a bunch of bodybuilders work out. Oh well, I guess I’ve never paid much attention. I don’t go for super musclebound guys. I like a guy to have a nice, defined chest and abs, but nothing too overdone. I found myself daydreaming about what Jack might look like without a shirt on. Judging from what he looks like with one on, he’s probably exactly the way I like a guy to look. He has amazing arms, and I bet his chest matches nicely. But I digress. As I watched them begin practice, I was disturbed by how violent a sport football seemed to be. I admit to knowing nothing about it, but I was still surprised by how much anger seemed to be involved. There was actually one near-fight that the coach had to break up. Jeez.

  Their practice and my running continued for another entire hour, by the end of which I was thoroughly chilled and yet sweaty. Go figure. I was so glad I wouldn’t be seeing Jack in my current state. I mean, we didn’t have that kind of relationship, but here’s hoping. I really didn’t know quite what to make of our relationship; were we just friends? It seemed like maybe that’s all he wanted sometimes, but then I’d catch him looking at me in a certain way and I wasn’t so sure. It would actually be fine with me—more than fine—if he wanted more than friendship. I mean, come on; he’s totally hot! He’s also really sweet and smart…and I almost missed the cheerleaders packing up and retreating to the locker room.

  I sauntered after them casually, grateful to end my afternoon workout. Veronica was already stripping off her bandeau bra when I rounded the corner into our row. She gave me a dirty look and thrust her too-perky breasts a little higher. I tried to ignore her massive mammary glands as I made my way to my locker. “What the…?” I was gazing in shock at my open locker, backpack, gym bag and various articles of clothing spread on the floor. I looked closer and saw the ruins of my hot pink combo lock amongst the wreckage. “Shit,” I whispered. I’m not usually much of a potty mouth, but my locker had been broken into! I think I’m entitled. “Shit, shit, shit…” I continued under my breath as I began to gather up my erstwhile belongings. “My wallet and my iPhone are gone!” I followed a trail of clothing into the showers and found my jeans, shirt, and jacket, wet and crumpled in a corner of the showers. Now that’s just mean.

  “Wow, that sucks.” I turned quickly and found myself face-to-boob with Veronica’s chest.

  “Oh for God’s sake, put a shirt on, “I mumbled as I pushed past her with my dripping garments in my hands. Great. What was I going to wear home? How was I going to get home? My bus pass was in my wallet. Shit.

  I was standing in front of my locker, shoving the few possessions I had left in my backpack. “I don’t even know what to do. Do I report it?” I asked Veronica.

  “I don’t know. I’ve never had that happen,” she replied.

  “Do you think any of the coaches are still around? Maybe I should find one,” I wondered, half to myself.

  “No!” Veronica surprised me by nearly yelling. At least she finally had her shirt on. It’s unnerving talking to someone who’s topless. You can’t not look. I’m not a perv or anything, but the eyes are drawn to the boobs. “I think they’ve all gone home. Yeah, they all go home pretty early. I think you should report it tomorrow at school. That’s what you should do.” She was nodding so hard I thought her head might bob off. Weird reaction, but I had other worries currently.

  “Yeah, okay. Can I use your phone real quick? My bus pass got stolen so I need to call and see if I can get a ride home.”

  “Um, sure. Here.” She shoved it in my hands. “I’d offer you a ride, but I’m getting a ride with my boyfriend and he only has two seats.” I’d seen him tearing out of the parking lot in his Corvette. Some people have way too much money.

  “Thanks. That’s fine. I’m sure I can get my mom or my grandmother.” Only I wasn’t able to reach either of them. I knew Grams had late office hours tonight so she was probably with a client and I suddenly remembered my mom had said she had a PTA meeting and that I was supposed to warm up lefto
ver spaghetti for dinner. I tried to call Tara and even Travis, but no luck. I need more friends. What the hell good are cell phones if you can’t get someone when you really need them? I handed the phone back to Veronica and decided I’d better get started walking the two miles home. I know it’s not that far, but remember: I just finished running for, like, two hours, and I was going to be wearing shorts and a t-shirt and a thin sports bra courtesy of some inconsiderate thief. And it was getting really cold outside. Shit.

  “Well, good luck,” said Veronica. “It really sucks that your stuff got stolen.” Yeah, you said that. “Well, bye.” She waggled her fingers as she left.

  I finished gathering up my stuff and headed out, prepared for the long, chilly walk home. It wasn’t too bad until I emerged from the neighborhood surrounding the school onto the extremely busy Wyoming Boulevard, one of the major north-south thoroughfares in uptown Albuquerque. It was now around 5:00 p.m.—I guess. My cellphone was missing, remember? Nobody wears watches anymore—and the heavy northbound traffic from Kirtland Air Force base was humming along. Dusk comes early in November, which added to the chill. I had managed to get myself fairly wet when I picked up my clothes from the shower, so I was especially chilly in the wind that was now whipping around the more open boulevard. I think I also looked like I had been competing in a wet t-shirt contest. Shit. I want to make it known that the tears beginning to make their way down my cheeks were tears of anger. How dare someone break into my locker and steal my stuff! I felt so violated! I was so immersed in stewing in my own rage, that I was startled to hear my name. I turned, and life suddenly got a little bit better.